


in this moment

by artsycat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Rough Sex, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:20:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23679796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artsycat/pseuds/artsycat
Summary: King Robb marries Lady Margaery Tyrell to ensure her family's loyalty to the crown. He is not pleased in doing so, and seeks to soothe his resentment through his new wife.
Relationships: Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 68





	in this moment

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to my friend Sam

For Robb, this is something he has never thought about before.

Lady Margaery Tyrell lays sprawled out upon his bed, soft, brown curls laid in a heap of disarray, but her clothes remained intact. Her breathing is even - no signs that she is afraid or nervous, but her pupils are blown wide - with fear, apprehension, or lust, he cannot tell.

He had been in this exact opportunity plenty of times. Low born girls, high born girls, his experimentation and curiosity was a constant, ongoing thing. He had never wanted to slathe his needs. Girls had flocked to him regardless whether he was trying or not, but came they did, and with each time, Robb thought about grabbing them a little harder, gripping their hips until the blood vessels beneath them burst like ripened fruit under their skin, exactly the colour of his own eyes. Each time he thought about taking them, to tame this… this need of his. But he never acted upon such thoughts that controlled his desire. He respected women too much to act upon these thoughts; the inherent violence in them. He would think of the shame he’d feel if his mother were to ever find out, the blood-curdling, murderous feeling he’d feel if he were to know if Sansa or Arya were ever treated in such a way. So he’d pushed them away; allowed them to be nothing more than a curiosity, never to be let out.

Until now, of course.

He had barely known Lady Margaery but for a day and one night. His taking of the iron throne meant that he had to take everything else that came with it, including its future queen. He’s heard of her, from Sansa mainly, but he knows his own version of this Tyrell girl with her rich and powerful family. Renly Baratheon’s wife, and Joffrey’s would-be. A maid, her family claims, but Robb has his doubts. He mistrusts the Tyrells and this woman in front of him even more so; but he needs the power that comes with marrying her, the stability for the realm. She is not so homely to look at, quite the opposite, really. Performing his duties within the marriage bed would be no trouble, but there is something within him that stirs whenever he looks at her. Something primal and dark - something he is too afraid to let out.

“You can do what you like, my king.” She had said once they entered their rooms after the ceremony. He had asked her whether he could remove her dress off of her, but something in him had snapped. He doesn’t know what it is - the adrenaline for having taken the iron throne and punishing the Lannisters the way he’s dreamt about? Not having had a woman for… gods, for months. For being put in a position where he had to marry a woman he never knew? He had put down the Lannisters, but the Tyrells were another story. They would not leave the iron throne alone, and were determined to see a Tyrell queen upon it. And he had no choice but to take it. Like some sort of dog - like something less than a king.

“Are you scared?” He asks, partly out of curiosity and partly out of inquiring her well-being. He doesn’t want to harm her or have her frightened - he is not that sort of man. He pours wine when he hears her say, “No, your grace.”

“Are you sure?” He takes a gulp and sets down his cup. “You’re shivering.”

“Only because the window is open, your grace. I’m afraid King's Landing gets quite cold during the night.”

“Nothing compared to the north.” Robb waves her away with a scoff. Southern women would quiver in their skirts would they ever actually find out what exactly cold is. “Your gown is of such thin material. Perhaps that’s why.”

“Perhaps, your grace.” She makes a show to lower her lashes in defiance. “Would my king not prefer me to wear dresses with thin material such as these?”

“I only say it for your sake.”

“Of course, your grace.” She says, and lowers her lashes again. The act of submission is so slight, but it makes him want to see her do it again. This is right, he thinks. He shouldn’t be the one to care for her, he shouldn’t be the one afraid to offend her. She is only his queen - but he is her king. She will never take control over him - neither will her godsforsaken family.

But he needs to get this over with. The maidservants will inspect the sheets in the morning, and it will not do if he had not bedded her. He will not stand to suffer such humiliation. So perhaps that’s why he says his next words. 

“Take off your clothes.” He says as he moves to remove his tunic. “Quickly.”

“Yes, your- “

“And don’t speak. Unless I tell you to.”

She looks so unbelievably small as she nods her head. Her eyes dart up to see him, roaming over his naked chest, and her pupils are still blown wide, as if she really cannot believe this is happening. Perhaps it is the truth then, perhaps Renly Baratheon never bedded his pretty, young bride. Though Robb doesn’t understand why. The girl is nothing to scoff at, and he was half-hard in the sept of Baelor when she came to him, dressed in nothing but white, with a veil thrown across her face, and pretty, pink lips that had been so soft when he kissed them. 

Well, he will do more tonight than just kiss those lips. 

She stands to remove her gown, pulling at the laces behind. He almost offers to remove it for her, but thinks again. She’s able to do it with ease, and one by one the laces are loose, and her magnificent gown is slack around her shoulders. She shrugs it off and soon enough it pools around her feet, leaving her in nothing but her smallclothes. He stares almost mesmerized, and watches as she removes her smallclothes with skillful fingers. He wonders what those fingers could do when wrapped around his cock.

She stands before him, naked as the day she was born, and the light of the candles glisten against her skin, all smooth and pure. Without thinking, he reaches out to touch her from the base of her neck down to her breast. She shivers as his finger grazes against her nipples, and the reaction makes him harder than he was before. 

He moves closer until they both are chest to chest. She looks up at him from beneath her lashes, and he kisses her, softly. She sighs against him, as though she were waiting for this, and is almost pliant in his arms. His hands move to her hair where he removes the pins as gently as he can, letting them flow against her back. Their lips move against each other, until she opens her mouth against his in invitation, and he slides his own tongue within.

She doesn’t seem nervous. She doesn’t seem like anything a maid should be on their wedding night. So he must ask, he must.

“Tell me,” he says in between kisses. “Tell me the truth. Tell me whether or not you are a maid. I will not punish you or set you aside if you are not.”

She’s silent for a moment, as if deliberating her answer, then finally, “I am a maid, your grace.”

He breathes through his nose, and nods, accepting this, and moves to kiss her again. This time, he goes a bit harder, just a bit of an experiment. Presses his lips and teeth and tongue against her own, listens to the hitch in her breath and the way her nails sink in his arms.

His hips press to her own, and from her gasp he can tell she can feel it. The naked skin on her back is smooth, and he traces her spine with an almost ghost-like touch, until he can feel her shiver. He moves down, teaching her jawline with his mouth, moving until he reaches her sternum and then laves his tongue against her breasts. Her thready moan is almost enough to undo him, and he wonders if she knows how wildly seductive she is. He wonders if she knows what she’s doing to him.

His teeth graze her nipples, and he bites down, and her sharp intake of breath makes him want more. He wants to see what he can do until she’s a mess in his arms, until she breaks. He wants this, he thinks head heavy with lust. He wants her.

He forces her on the bed, where he makes her lay down. He can almost hear her heart beating wildly in her chest - or perhaps that is his own he hears. He spreads her legs apart, and the faint, musky scent hits him, driving him almost half-mad. 

He tries to be gentle - for her sake. 

She is wet when he checks, her cunt slick with moisture. He moves his finger up and down along her slit and she sighs with pleasure as he moves along the top, where his thumb rests against a small nub.

She moans as he rubs it, her eyes almost screwed shut as if in prayer. He moves again, her reactions encouraging him. He wants this to be pleasurable for her, too. He rubs and rubs again, and enters a finger in her, pumping in and out.

She clutches at her fingers, as if hoping that he will not stop. But he wants to hear her even more, he wants - 

“Does this feel good?” He asks. 

“Yes, your grace.” She says. “Please - don’t stop.”

“How good?”

“So much,” she chokes out. “Very much - I - please keep going, please.”

“Please what?”

“Please, your grace.”   
  


Still a lady even when she is like this. He wants to push her even farther.

His hand moves with fervor, hard and fast, and ultimately without much grace, he will admit. But she’s breathing hard and heavy, and her nails sink in the skin of his hands, and a moan escapes her lips and - 

“How badly do you want this?”

“So badly,” she says, almost weeps. “So, so, so badly.”

The ache in his hand is nothing compared to the wild heat and frenzy threatening to undo him. The sound is so obscene - so perverse, the way his hand moves within her. He goes and goes and goes, until finally, her walls clamp around his fingers and her back arches and her mouth forms a silent ‘o’. 

He can’t wait for her to come down from her pleasure - he just can’t. 

So he flips her over onto her stomach, and removes his breeches and his smallclothes hastily. He smooths his hand over her buttocks, and spreads them apart where he can see her guides his manhood and slides slick within her.

They both moan at the contact, of flesh meeting flesh, and he stays still for a moment, savoring this. He moves slowly within her, thrusting his hips against her behind, and grips her shoulder hard without meaning to.

It is only until she cries, more pain then pleasure, is when he stops completely, worry overtaking.

“Are you - “

But before he can ask, she turns around, and begs him,  _ begs _ him, “Don’t stop, please don’t stop - “

And he doesn’t. 

This time, he doesn’t hold on. He lets go completely. He thrusts harder and faster then he’s done before, and before she can finish her sentence, he yanks her head back, and she cuts off her own words with a sharp cry, and he wraps her long, brown hair against his hand, and sinks her teeth in her shoulder. Her skin doesn’t break, but it’s close, and when he moves away the skin is livid, and raised, red-purple blooming across the pale snow of her body like scattered drops of blood. Something about it stirs something repressed and primal in him.

Red looks good on her, he thinks.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs in her ear, deceptively softly, right before he bites down on her earlobe. She lets out a small squeak, almost jumping, but his hips set a punishing pace, snapping in and out as hard as he dares. It’s almost painful for him, so he knows it’s painful for her. But she shows no signs of fear, no signs of hurt, instead she bites her lips, leaving them as white as the snow in Winterfell.

He tugs at her hair once more, leaving her back curved in that lovely arch, and she fists the sheets in her hand, tearing them into ribbons.

He pins her wrists to the bed from behind her, pushes her face down to the mattress until her voice is muffled by the sheets. He fucks her, wants to hurt her, wants to make her scream, and though her voice is all but a murmur, he can still hear her when she calls out his name. A distinct choke of the syllables _ Ro-bb _ .

He lifts her by the throat, so her back is flush against his, and she says it again.

“Who says you could speak?” He breathes into her ear, digging his fingers into her throat. “Who says you could say my name?”   
  


“I - I just thought you’d like to hear my voice - “ she says, almost stuttering on the words. 

He laughs - almost darkly. And grazes his teeth behind the shell of her ear. “You only speak when I tell you to. You only say my name when I tell you to. Understood?”

He doesn’t give her time to answer when he moves her face down to the mattress once again, and his fingers stay at the base of her throat, almost choking her, and she clutches around him and Robb knows he won’t last for long. 

He yanks her by the hair once again, turns her face to him, and says, “Beg.”

“Your grace - “

“I said beg. Beg for it, Margaery.”

He can see her eyes, glistened with unshed tears (and he tries to ignore the voice inside him that tells him one day he will see her cry) and her lips tremble. “ _ Please _ , your grace. Please, please,  _ please _ \- “

“Fuck,” he says aloud. He changes his angle, hoping that he won’t undo, not yet. But this angle works for her, leaving her gasping and moaning and writhing. “I - I want to come,  _ please _ , make me come,  _ please _ , I want to, so bad I - “

“Look at me,” he says, the tone of his voice more a plea than an order this time. Margaery obliges, and brown meets blue, the edges of her eyes flashed with ecstacy, and Robb loses his rhythm, loses everything and he’s overcome, and she clutches tight against him, her walls clamping down and - 

The violence of her orgasm takes him by surprise and draws his own from him. He sees nothing but white for a moment, his surroundings all blind to him, leaving his body shuddering as he spills inside her. Her own body shakes from contractions beneath him, and he can’t even tell until he’s dropped himself on top of her.

With all the strength left in him, he moves to the side of the bed, rolling over her, and breathes heavily, trying to regain his breath. His eyes feel droopy, heavy with sleep, but he watches her from the corner of his eye and feels guilt. 

“Margaery are you - “

  
  


“I’m fine.” She responds, turning her face to his. “I am, your grace.”

“You can… you can call me Robb. Don’t… don’t ever hesitate with me, alright?”

Brown eyes look at him inquisitively. “Of course, Robb.”

“Good.” He says, shutting his eyes. “Good.”

He’s not sure of when morning comes. The sun outside is high and bright, light spilling onto the bed, and when Robb wakes he sees the evidence of last night on the sheets. He isn’t sure of what he’s searching for, but his hands fumble around the linens and blankets when he finally finds - 

That there is no blood.


End file.
